


The Wolf in the Dales

by MajorTrouble



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2014 exchangelock, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, John is a Saint, John is a country doctor, exchangelock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doctor John Watson should be very happy. He is a country doctor, working out in the Yorkshire Dales with his new wife, Mary, wanting for nothing. Then why does he feel so angry and bored? On a walk one night, he comes across something strange in the Dales. A silver wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf in the Dales

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turnbasedmilo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnbasedmilo/gifts).



> This is an exchangelock gift for turnedbasedmilo! I really hope you like it. I liked your prompt "John and Mary are married and solving crimes with Sherlock" and that it was so broad that I could do anything. And this is what happened. Whilst this can be taken as one story, I'm going to leave it open so I can add to it later. Thanks to my AMAZING editor! I owe you so many beers.

Doctor John Watson believed he was happy. He was living what some would describe as the good life. On his therapist’s advice, five months ago he had moved himself and his new wife, Mary, out of London, far up into the Yorkshire Dales. In a small cottage at the outskirts of one of the picturesque, quaint little towns, he had set up his surgery. The opportunity had arisen when an old college professor of his had announced his retirement, wanting to move back to Glasgow to live with his son, and offered to sell the whole thing to John. It had been a hard decision, leaving London behind, but the two years he had lived there upon returning from the war had been hard. Mary was the only bright spot in all of it and had encouraged him to take up the position of country doctor.

So they had packed up their little life, said goodbyes to their few friends, and headed up to that tranquil, desolate place. The residents had at first been leery of the new out-of-towners, as most insular communities were, but John’s kind bedside manner and Mary’s cheerful presence helped ease the transition. It didn’t hurt that John had made fast friends with the local constable, Gregory Lestrade, and could be found at the pub most Thursday and Friday nights, chatting with the amiable older man.

All in all, John should have been happy. But he wasn’t. No, he was restless. Despite the pain in his leg and the nagging feeling of guilt at abandoning Mary, John opened the back door of their cottage and headed down the path between the two garden beds and out through the gate, into the wide open expanse of the Dales. He settled into the by now familiar pattern, stepping up with his left leg, swinging the cane forward in his right hand and then using it to brace part of his weight as he moved his right leg in step. It was a limp he couldn’t remember living without; the dull ache and pinched feeling always there, except for the two times it wasn’t. Once, trying desperately to save the life of a young woman stabbed several times in the abdomen and twice, chasing after an older man who had had the audacity to try to steal his wallet. The aching pain had vanished both times, turned aside by adrenaline and the tight excitement that had gripped his chest.

Now, however, he relied on the cane as he meandered over the rocky, hilly terrain, heading far out into the darkness of the early morning. The moon shone brightly in between dark clouds, its nearly full roundness hanging in a sky scattered with stars. That was one saving grace of being so far into the country; hardly any light pollution to mask the glorious expanse of twirling light that lit up his path. John moved along without purpose, heading first down a well-travelled path before turning right along a rocky outcropping. His mind was carefully blank as he walked, not thinking about anything, though he could feel the anger and hopelessness clawing its way up his spine.

He had tried speaking to Mary about it, tried to make her understand, but the words would not come. Frustration had made them both snap at each other, Mary finally relenting and just holding him, her chin on his shoulder.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, you know that?” she had said, pressing a kiss to his cheek as she drew back and his breath caught as he saw the steely look in her eyes. “Nothing.”

His grateful grin had turned wolfish as he kissed her back before heading to the kitchen and making them both tea.

John grimaced now, suddenly thinking about tea. How very British of him. Making tea. When all he really wanted to do was yell at the top of his lungs how not alright he was. How had he ended up here, of all places, walking through the Dales in the middle of the night, hoping someone would jump him just so he could feel the rush of danger course through his veins, and the clarity of knowing exactly what he had to do to stop that someone.

His thoughts were tangled up in that feeling now, and he walked that way for a long while, farther and farther into the Dales. It wasn’t until he nearly tripped over a long length of rope and stuttered to a halt that he finally had the sense to look around him. It was still very late, or very early depending on how you looked at it, and now that his eyes had fully adjusted to the dim light of the stars and the moon, he could see the land rolling away on all sides. A prickling sensation caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand at attention as he realized that he was completely lost. No familiar landmarks jumped out at him. His cottage was lost in the undulating landscape. Looking down, his brows knitted together as he looked at the long length of heavy rope that he’d nearly lost his balance on. His eyes followed its outline off to the left where it disappeared over a short outcropping of rock and heather. Curious, he walked along the rope, noting that it had been installed recently, given the wear on the ground beneath it. As he followed it, he noticed other things on the ground; large, deep marks where something had been dragged across the ground as well as a few tufts of bright silver hairs laying in clumps that caught and held the moonlight. John felt as though he should be frightened, or at least a little more concerned than he was. But despite the fact that he had no idea how far he’d come out into the Dales, and the ever increasing evidence that whatever was at the end of this rope might not be friendly, he only felt a growing sense of excitement and interest.

As the rope went over the shallow hump in the ground, it fell down between two strong stones, wedged into the crevice and held tight there. It continued along, falling out of sight again, into a lee in the landscape where the silvery moonlight couldn’t reach. Shifting the cane to his left hand for a moment, John pulled out a small torch from the pocket of his army jacket, flicking it on and shining it into the half-cave.

His breath hissed between his teeth before he clamped his mouth shut. There, laying on its side, its muzzle encased in a crude wire cage, was a huge silver-haired dog. The rope looped through the wire cage and around its head, cinched tight under its throat. As John played the light back and forth over the still body, he noticed bright red patches around the contours of its head; blood. Some of it had dried into dark maroon streaks and it was in stark contrast to the white fur. A feeling of sympathy and trepidation skittered across his nerves as he realized that he could see the shallow rise and fall of the dog’s chest. As the light made its way back up to the animal’s head, John felt a thrill of shock as he saw the pale blue and green eyes that were now looking up at him. An unnatural amount of intelligence seemed to radiate from those curious orbs, but John didn’t feel threatened or in any way frightened as he moved forward. He’d always liked dogs, even big dogs, and he held out his hands in supplication, breaking eye contact quickly and pressing his chin to his chest in what he knew was a calming gesture.

“Hello there, you lovely thing, what are you doing down here in the dark?” he crooned, carefully approached one silver-white flank, reaching out tentatively to stroke the enticing fur. A high whine came out of the prone creature, but it made no other movements. “It’s alright. Just want to get a look at that neck of yours,” John continued, carding his fingers through the soft strands. He had expected something coarser, denser, but the fur under his touch was luxuriant, softer than the cashmere jumper he’d gotten as a birthday present from Mary last year. With gentle strokes and carefully controlled movements, he made his way up to the dog’s throat. Placing the butt of the torch in his clenched teeth, he splayed the fingers of one hand across the animal’s shoulder, trying to will into that touch as much calmness as he could. His left hand came up and traced where the rope was biting into the dog’s slender throat. He felt more than heard the low growl as he tried to pull the rope away, and his right hand tightened on the creature’s shoulder as he leaned back slightly, considering.

The whole situation was a bit bizarre. Why was this dog here, in the middle of the Dales, bound and bleeding in this tiny cave? John could tell from the way it was laying that it was in immense pain, but it didn’t snap or make any move at all as he reached into another pocket, pulling out a short, sharp army-issue knife. Those too-intelligent eyes followed his movements as he hacked through the rope, and another whine slipped out as John delicately loosened the biting edge of the rough rope and pulled it out from around the animal’s throat. The rope had cut deeply into the tissue there and John made a soft sound of dismay as the wound started bleeding again. To his surprise, the creature closed its eyes, still not moving, and let John dab at the edges with a handkerchief. Quickly, making up his mind, he checked the dog for any other injuries, feeling along its limbs and head. One of its back legs was twisted at an angle and John sucked in a breath, the edges of his vision bright with anger. Who would do this?

He glanced back at the dog’s head, caught up again in the pale eyes and his resolve hardened. He carefully removed the rest of the rope where it circled through the crude wire muzzle and pulled both from the dog, setting them down and stepping back. It narrowed its eyes at him before lifting its head, shaking it slightly and flexing its jaw as a human would. It huffed out a breath and looked up at John, tongue suddenly lolling out of its mouth in what he could only take as a smile. John found himself smiling as well, but it quickly turned to a sense of panic and he stumbled back another step as the dog clumsily pushed itself to its feet and John realized that this was far too big to be just a dog. Its head came nearly to the top of his shoulder as it stood in front of him. He gulped down his sense of terror and slowly moved out of the way, assuming that what he could only assume was a large wolf would want to get away from a human as soon as it could. Instead, it huffed out another breath and hobbled forward on three legs, a high, piteous whine bubbling up from its long throat.

John smiled ruefully. “Huh. Well, come on then. Not sure where I am, but I should at least see to that leg before you go haring off into the night.” He blinked in surprise as the wolf seemed to nod its head before moving slowly forward, whuffling at John’s coat a moment before lifting its muzzle, scenting the air and turning off to the left. It took several steps before looking back over its shoulder, whining again. John looked confused for a moment as it did it again before he realized what was happening.

“Oh, think you can find our way home, do you?” he asked, falling into step beside the huge creature. “Go on, then.” He patted the shoulder affectionately, though he wasn’t sure why and stiffened slightly at the deep growl. But when he looked over, the wolf was lolling its tongue again and John smiled back.

The only thought that crossed his mind as the wolf lead him back through the Dales was how Mary was going to react to the looming silver-white creature.

\-------------------

It took a good couple of hours before John finally saw the outline of his cottage looming out of the darkness in front of him. He let out a grateful sigh, then frowned as he noticed how the sky was starting to tinge pink at the far edge behind the cottage.

“Damn,” he whispered, all thought of tucking himself back into bed with Mary none the wiser scattering in the beginning light of day. The wolf beside him whined again and he smiled ruefully, opening the gate and holding it as the large creature carefully hobbled through, one back leg tucked up out of the way. John led the way over to the small shed, pulling a key from over the door frame and unlocking it. He held the door again, though the wolf twisted its head to look at him, for all the world seeming to raise a non-existent eyebrow as if to ask, ‘Really? You want me to go in there?’

John laughed quietly. It reminded him of his old dog, Charlie, an Irish Wolfhound with far too much dignity and poise to ever be caught playing or romping about like an actual dog. Charlie had often given him looks like that when John had been young and full of energy, always trying to get the older dog to chase after him. A sudden sadness at the loss flickered through his chest and he frowned at the wolf before indicating the open door with an outstretched hand.

“I know you probably don’t like confined spaces, but I need to have a look at that rope burn and maybe set your leg, else it’ll never heal straight,” he said, keeping his voice quiet and soft, knowing that the animal couldn’t understand him, but trying to convey himself as a non-threat.

The wolf looked at him again, appraisingly, John thought, before hobbling into the small shed. John grinned in surprise and triumph before following the great lanky form in, closing the door behind him. The wolf glanced around, taking in its surroundings before turning back to John, whose heart was suddenly in his throat as he realized, belatedly, that he had just locked himself in a tiny room with a huge, wild animal. He held his breath as it looked at him again before flopping, quite indignantly, down on its side. John let out his breath in relief. He wasn’t sure how he had come to trust this creature so quickly, but he suddenly knew it wouldn’t hurt him. He blinked in surprise before shaking his head and grabbing his emergency med kit off a high shelf beside the door. He pulled the string on the bulb above his head and got down to assessing his newest patient.

Aside from the red and raw looking rope marks in its throat, and the unnaturally twisted leg, the rest of the wolf looked healthy. John got to work carefully inspecting and cleaning the wound around the creature’s head, deciding against anything other than an antibiotic cream to dress the wound. He ran his hand soothingly down the wolf’s flank and was dismayed to feel every rib, every notch of bone.

“How long were you chained up there? You must be starving,” John murmured, finally reaching the twisted back leg. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that the leg was indeed broken, and set badly. John sighed in resignation and looked back at the expressive face that was now turned towards him. “This is not good. If you ever want to run again, I’m going to need to re-set this. It’s going to hurt,” he spoke as if the creature understood him and wondered how he could do this without the great beast killing him. But the wolf only whined again before laying its head down, sighing out another breath and going very still.

John’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline in amazement. Could it be that the wolf could actually understand what he was saying? John shook his head. That was ridiculous. It was probably just exhausted and unable to do anything to defend itself. He hadn’t made any move to hurt him and maybe it had begun to trust that he wouldn’t, even now. Grimly, John made preparations to re-set the mangled limb. With infinite care, he worked the limb out from where it was tucked close in to the wolf’s side. He laid out a splint and with quick, sharp motions, jerked the bones back into proper alignment. He worked as quickly as he could, wrapping the leg and stepping back when the splint was secure. To his utter amazement, the only sound the wolf made was a deep growl and a pained whine, not even twitching as John re-broke the leg.

He sat back, surveying the work and nodding sharply to himself. “Yes, that should do. Now to get you some food. Just lay here for a bit, would you? No sudden movements.” He grinned again as the wolf let out a sigh and closed its eyes.

John exited the shed, carefully shutting the door behind him. As he made his way back up to the cottage, he could see the sun slowly dragging itself into the sky and the landscape opened in sharp relief below it. As soon as John opened the door, Mary was there, her lips pressed in a hard line as she took him in, eyes widening at the blood on his hands.

“What –“ she started, but he cut her off immediately with a swipe of his hand, shaking his head at the same time.

“Not mine,” he reassured her, heading for the kitchen to wash up. “Found an injured animal out on the Dales. Brought it back here to treat.” He soaped up, cleaning his hands meticulously, using the scrub brush to do under and around his nails. The silence stretched out behind him and he turned around, expecting some sort of angry look but Mary just seemed sad. He dried his hands before wrapping his arms around the smaller woman.

“I wasn’t sure when you left, but I knew where you’d gone,” her muffled voice floated up from under his chin. She pushed back slightly, looking him in the eye as she asked, “What sort of animal?”

John glanced away guiltily. “Um, a wolf?” Mary’s eyes widened in disbelief before she laughed. “What?”

“Oh! Trust you to bring home an injured animal and a wolf, no less,” she chortled at him, moving out of his grip to head to the ‘fridge, opening it and digging through its depths.

John was stunned into silence as he watched his wife pull out some cold cooked sausages as well as a raw slab of steak. “Hey! That’s for tea!” he protested as she started cubing the meat and placing it in a bowl she pulled out of the cupboard.

“Yes, well, I’m not the one who brought a probably starving, injured wolf home,” she retorted, smiling merrily. She bustled past him, heading out the door, pausing to look back at him. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

He cleared his throat, confused about the direction this whole conversation had turned around on him. He had been quite sure that he would have had to ease Mary into the idea of a wolf in the shed, and here she was, smiling at him in that mischievous way of hers that always set his heart racing. He couldn’t help but grin back at her, moving past and out the door to lead the way through the garden to the shed.

Cautiously, he opened the door again, suddenly afraid of startling the huge creature. It lifted its head to him as he pulled the door outwards, licking its muzzle as it smelled the meat Mary was carrying.

“Oh!” Mary breathed, standing just to John’s side and looking around him. “He is gorgeous.” She stepped around him, kneeling on the floorboards in front of the silver-white creature, reaching out her hand tentatively and grinning like a school-girl when the wolf sniffed her fingers before giving a few sharp licks. “Bet you’re hungry. Here,” she said, and set the bowl down.

The wolf startled them both, practically leaping to its feet in order to get at the meat on offer. Mary’s strangled laugh made it look up for a moment and its mouth fell open in another grin, tongue hanging lazily out. John barked a sharp laugh and the wolf barked at them both before digging back into the bowl.

They watched the beast quietly as it finished the meat, settling back down on its side and sighing. Mary took up the bowl again, still smiling, and headed back to the house. John flipped the switch on the light bulb, glancing one last time at the wolf laying prone on the floor of the shed. Sensing it was being stared at, the great beast lifted its head and huffed at him, before laying down again. John, a bit unsettled by that look, closed the door and followed his wife back into the cottage. He was concerned that the wolf might try to break through the door when it got better, but it hadn’t displayed any overt aggression and he hoped that would hold true for the remainder of its convalescence.

The rest of the day went fairly smoothly. Being a Friday, there was a fair share of sniffles and one broken arm, but mostly the surgery only saw regular patients, the older residents of the town and surrounding area, come to get check-ups and refills on prescriptions. Dr Watson went through his list cheerfully, though John’s mind was still on the shed in his garden. Mary brought back several more steaks and sausages from the local butcher and stowed them in the fridge. By the time Dr Watson’s last client hobbled out the door on the crutches he gave her for her twisted ankle, Mary was busy preparing a roast for their tea.

He smiled gratefully at her and she pressed a bowl of cubed meat into his hand, giving him a kiss before shoving him towards the door. John made his way back out into the garden, down the path and to the shed. When he opened the door this time, the wolf was sitting on its haunches, waiting for him expectantly. It came towards him, head down, tail wagging in a great sweeping arc behind it. John beamed down at the creature, placing the bowl down and watching it devour the meat. As it did, John came to the sudden realization that he couldn’t just keep calling it “it”. Surreptitiously, on the pretext of looking at the wolf’s leg, he snuck a glance under that happily waving tail.

Boy. Definitely a boy wolf. John laughed a little and the wolf paused in its – his – eating to glance back at John curiously. “Nothing, not a worry,” John grinned. “Good boy,” he added, patting the wolf firmly on the shoulder before standing up again. Blue-green eyes held his for a long moment before the wolf licked his muzzle clean of blood and flopped back down, rather inelegantly, on the floor of the shed. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, huffing it back out. John took that as his cue to leave, collecting the bowl on the way out.

Mary had dinner neatly prepared for them when he got back into the house and he ate with relish, feeling at ease in the cottage for the first time in a long while. He cleaned up afterwards, as was their arrangement, then grabbed his jacket, pausing long enough to give his wife a lingering kiss before heading out the door and down the long lane to the pub. He knew Mary took these opportunities to head out on her own, usually farther down the lane or to Carlston’s house to pick up eggs and look in on the old man.

Constable Lestrade was waiting for him, tucked into a corner in the low-ceilinged, old stone house. He raised a hand in greeting as John came in, pointing to a glass on the table in front of him. John nodded and went up to the bar, ordering two pints of lager and shuffling around a few other patrons to take his seat opposite Greg.

“Ta, that’s lovely,” Greg greeted him, clinking glasses before bringing the foamy-headed beer up to his lips. “Oh, needed this, after the day I’ve had.”

John looked over his pint at the older man in surprise. “What, something interesting, all the way out here?”

“Ya, get a lot of those. You’d be surprised,” Greg said into his pint. Although his voice was light, the lines of his face were drawn up tight and John thought he looked much older than usual.

He hesitated a moment before asking, “Want to tell me about it?”

The constable’s brows dipped down and the corners of his mouth followed. He seemed lost in thought for a moment before sighing and plunking his glass back down onto the wooden table. His voice was low and gravely and John had to lean forward in order to hear. “Now don’t go spreading this around, doctor, but there’ve been a few disappearances out round the Dales. Eight people in the last three months.” Greg took another sip of his lager, licking his lips before he continued. “And two bodies.”

John’s eyes widened. “What? How?”

Greg rubbed a hand over his face, seeming to want to massage away the anxiety and fatigue gathered there. He shrugged. “I don’t know. But now my friend’s gone missing as well. You’d remember him; Sherlock, tall bloke, skinny as a pole, cheekbones that’d cut you. Helps me out on cases sometimes. Four days he’s been gone. He’s gone off on his own before, but he’s always texted me.”

The doctor suddenly did remember the man Greg was talking about. He’d heard rumours of the man as soon as he’d set foot in town, of course, but had only caught fleeting glimpses of him about town. Greg had spoken of him before, on occasion, but John’d never formally met the man.

“There’s something sinister going on around here, and I intend to find out what,” Greg said, steel edging his voice.

“Speaking of which,” John started carefully, unsure if he should be telling the constable this. “But I was out for a walk late last night and, um - “ he broke off, licking his lips and worrying his bottom one with his teeth for a moment.

“Well, go on then,” Greg prompted.

“Someone had tied a big white wolf up out there somewhere. Rope ‘round his neck. Mouth all caged up in wire. Poor thing had a broken leg, too,” John said all in a rush before gulping half his pint down. He wasn’t entirely confident that the constable would believe him at first, but the look on Greg’s face changed from surprise to anger as he spoke.

“Where is he now?” he asked.

“Back at my cottage. Got him set up in the shed.” John shrugged. “Had to fix his leg.”

Greg looked thoughtful for a moment. “Can I see him?” he asked.

The doctor grinned widely. “Sure.” He swallowed the rest of his pint and slipped out from the table, Greg following closely behind. They chatted aimlessly as John took them down the long road out of the town proper and up a small set of gradually rolling tracks to the cottage he shared with Mary. He led the way around the side of the stone building, coming out on the edge of the garden, a few feet from the shed.

“Here, just let me make sure he’s not startled,” John offered, pulling the door open slowly. The great wolf was still laying on his side, and he raised its head as the door was opened, thumping his tail against the floor as he saw who was in the doorway. The thumping stopped and John could see the silvery hair around his neck lifting, the wolf’s eyes narrowing and a deep growl coming from his throat when he caught sight of Greg. “Hey, now, no need for that,” John said reproachfully. “Just checking to see you’re all right.”

The wolf looked back at him before huffing out a breath and laying his head back down, conveying such a put-upon look as he did that John was startled into a laugh. “He almost seems a bit human, doesn’t he?” John smiled, turning around to look at Greg. His expression faltered as he took in the constable’s ashen face. “What? What’s the matter?” John asked, concerned.

“Just a very big wolf,” Greg intoned, clearing his throat roughly, hand going to rub at his short-cropped hair self-consciously. “How far out in the Dales did you say you found him?”

John made a noncommittal noise low in his throat. “I’ve no idea. I wandered too far out. Actually, I never would have made it back this morning if it weren’t for him.” He stepped back out of the shed and closed the door. “Should be alright in a few more days, though that back leg might take a good six weeks. Had to re-break it in order to set the damn thing.”

“Really?” Greg asked, clearly incredulous. “And he didn’t fight you?”

John shook his head ruefully. “Not at all. It was all a bit surreal, honestly.” He started back towards the cottage, Greg following, but looked back over his shoulder repeatedly.

“You’re not - not worried it might break out?” Greg asked, voice tinged with concern and - was that laughter? What the hell?

“Not really, no,” John answered, opening the backdoor to the cottage and ushering Greg in. “You want a drink?”

“Nah, I should head back anyway. Need my rest in case there’s another person gone missing tonight,” the constable huffed out. He looked older with his face drawn down into a frown. “Thanks for the pint, and the - “ he indicated the shed with a pointed finger. “See you tomorrow?”

“God, yes,” John chuckled. “I’m going to need it. Flu jab season, and they’ve just sent up the first batch.”

The constable chuckled in sympathy. “Alright. I’ll save a seat for you.”

After Greg had left, John folded himself into the old chair set by the fireplace. It was one of the few things he had brought with him from London and its faded red fabric  
comforted him. He picked up his half-finished book from the tea table and settled in.

He must have fallen asleep at some point as when he groggily opened his eyes next, the sitting room was completely enshrouded in shadows. Mary still wasn’t back yet - most likely had headed over to Elaine’s for some gin and gossip - but something had awoken him. Cautiously, he stood up, head cocked to one side, listening intently for anything out of the ordinary. There, footsteps on the garden path. John held himself perfectly still, his years of military training allowing him to relax and think. Someone was in his back garden, someone incredibly stealthy. John ever-so-quietly stalked to the back door, moving with a fluid grace that would have shocked him had he been thinking about it. Through the window beside the door he could just make out a dark figure easing the door to the shed open. He held his breath, sure he was about to witness this intruder attacked by the wolf. Instead, he watched as a torch was flicked on, playing across the interior before coming to rest on the head of that silvery animal.

The figure moved to block John’s view for a moment and then it was holding something out and instead of a wolf there was a man in his shed, long limbed with tousled dark hair, squinting into the light aimed at his face.

John was moving before he knew it, throwing open the door and walking quickly down the path, his cane held high in his hands. The man in the shed’s eyes widened and he made a guttural sound, causing the other figure to whip around quickly, blocking the swinging cane on the torch.

“Who the hell are you?” John snarled, leaning forward on the cane and forcing the other back a step.

“John! John! It’s Greg!” the constable yelled back at him, now using both hands to fend off the cane.

The doctor immediately came to a halt, staring blankly at the figure before him as his brain caught up with his actions, piecing together the familiar older man’s face, lit by the nearly full moon overhead.

“What is going on?” he rasped, eyes flicking from Greg to the man behind him, who was naked but for a thin robe he had draped over his shoulders, clutching it closed in the front.

Greg sighed, a long drawn out sound of exasperation. He flicked the torch back to the man behind him. “This is Sherlock.”

John eyed the man critically, noticing the sharp cheekbones first, the dark auburn hair, the piercing blue-green eyes. His gaze travelled down to the red mark circling the other man’s throat before skittering down to his right leg, bound in a splint, though it looked uncomfortably tight now. His eyes snapped back to Sherlock’s. “Bloody hell,” he whispered. “You - you’re the wolf.”

The tall man’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Quite.” He shoved his arms through the sleeves and wrapped the robe more securely around himself. “I must thank-you, I suppose, for getting me out of that situation in the Dales. It wasn’t my original intention to be trapped out there for so long.”

Greg huffed a laugh. “No? Then what was your original intention?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the constable. “As you well know, my intention was to find the people behind the kidnappings and run them to ground. However, I - “ he paused, looking down at his injured leg. “Miscalculated.”

“I’ll say. Getting caught not part of your plan, was it?”

“Of course it was part of my plan to be captured! I needed to know what they were doing with the victims!” Sherlock growled back. “Unfortunately, I was injured in the process and woke up to find myself tied up and unable to free myself.”

“Bloody lot of good that did you, then!” Greg yelled back.

“It wasn’t my fault you were too incompetent to - Hey!” Sherlock bit off, glancing down at John where he was carefully prodding the injured leg. “What are you doing?”

John had moved forward as the two men bickered, drawn by the fading red mark on the tall man’s neck, and settled on his heels to prod at the bones in his leg, fascinated by the way they seemed to be knitting together. It had been less than a day and yet they seemed to be nearly healed. “I am making sure this is healing properly,” he answered, adjusting the splint and standing back up. “I take it you have some sort of advanced healing?”

Sherlock just blinked at him for a moment. “Yes,” he said, slowly, still unsure. “You’re not -” he gestured vaguely “- put off by any of this?”

“Well, it’s a bit of shock, yes,” John admitted. He thought for a moment, but no other emotion made itself clear aside from the thrill of excitement at this bizarre turn of events. “But I’ve heard of your kind before. Just rumours, mind. And there was a lad in my unit who used to sleepwalk. Thought he was just a bit peculiar, finding him naked curled up on the rug outside the tent. One morning I woke up before everyone else and it was a big black dog laying there instead. Thought I was dreaming.” John realized he was babbling as the other two men exchanged glances. He sighed. “Well, nevermind, then. Come in and have a cup of tea.” He turned and started walking back towards the cottage, not looking to see if the other two followed him.

He opened the back door and headed into the kitchen, flicking on lights as he went, before grabbing and filling the kettle. The familiar routine of pulling down mugs and setting out a pot with a small jug of milk and bowl of sugar took his mind over the extraordinary circumstances happening in his back garden. Whilst his mind clearly understood what was going on, the medical part of his brain was racing through the possibilities. Could Sherlock change into anything else? How was it possible to re-arrange his skeleton in such a way? Did he inherit the ability or was it somehow forced upon him?

Putting everything onto a tray, he poured the water into the old brown betty and headed into the sitting room where the two other men had settled.

“Ta,” Greg thanked him as he put the tray down.

“Any biscuits?” Sherlock asked.

“Might do,” John replied, heading back into the kitchen. Just then, Mary came through the front door, her cheeks rosy from the cool night air and what John knew was at least two glasses of gin and tonic. He diverted his course, kissing her soundly as she pulled off her coat.

“Oh? Good to see you too,” she said cheerfully. “Are you working up to something?”

John’s face flushed at the implications and he re-calculated her intake to three glasses. “Come here. We have… guests.”

Mary cocked an eyebrow as she hung up her coat. John just smiled and led her into the sitting room.

“Ah, hello Constable Lestrade, so nice of you to bring my husband home,” she grinned warmly at him before turning her gaze to the other man. “Sherlock. Get your feet off the table and set up properly.”

To John’s utter surprise, Sherlock obeyed, crossing his knees and settling the robe about himself, delicately picking up the tea cup and sipping slowly. He glared at Mary over the edge of the cup.

Seeing John’s look of utter confusion, Mary smiled brightly. “Now, tell me why these two are in my house at this hour, and why the wolf is gone.”

John gaped at her some more before Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t tease him, Mary, the man’s only just discovered things beyond his comprehension. Give him a moment for his little brain to adjust.”

The doctor drew himself up to his full height, glaring back and forth between his wife and this strange man in his house. “I’ll have you know, I am also a doctor.”

“Yes. An army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and a flare for stating the obvious.”

“Sherlock!” Greg sputtered.

John narrowed his eyes. “And you’re a childish prat who gets himself captured and tied up in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales and has to be rescued like some damsel in distress.”

Silence filled the room, tucking itself into the corners and bleeding out through Greg’s slack jaw and Sherlock’s raised eyebrows. Finally, it was broken as Sherlock put his cup back down, needlessly banging it loudly on the table beside him before gathering a breath to speak.

“You obviously left London in a hurry, probably out of money as your pension was a pittance compared to what you had been making in full service. Invalided out of the army due to a gunshot wound, some PTSD. Hmmm. Mary’s not from very much money, a love match then,” he curled his lip, “but it took a rare opportunity for you to come all the way up to Yorkshire. Oh!” His eyes lit up as he looked around the room quickly. “The good village doctor was a professor of yours. Probably offered you a very reasonable rate to take over his practice, which you accepted, obviously. Moved here, hmm, five months ago, judging by the state of the garden. Made fast friends with the local constable, though less liked by the rest of the town. Now the only question is, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John looked on at the strange man in shock before nodding his head a fraction. “Afghanistan.”

“Good. May I get down to business then? Victor Trevor is a very dangerous man. He is also a wolf, like me. He ran a pack up here years ago, but due to some unsavoury dealings, lost the leadership and disappeared for a time only to reappear six months ago, humble, repentant, or so it seemed. The original pack wanted nothing to do with him, and had already moved farther out into the Dales in any case. Those who remained here wanted nothing more than to lead normal lives amongst you humans.” Sherlock paused for breath, glancing at Greg, who nodded at him to go on. He picked his tea mug back up, taking a long swallow before continuing. “It started when I wasn’t here, called away on urgent family business. Mr and Mrs Grant went missing. Then two more; a couple of younger boys. Then Armand Turin, a retired air force pilot. I came back five nights ago, hoping to find out what had happened.”

He paused again, staring into the dregs of his mug, his expression suddenly filled with rage before smoothing back into a perfectly calm mask. He looked up at Greg again. “Victor’s decided to re-start his original enterprise. He’s making them keep their wolf shapes and pitting them against each other. He fits them with electric collars in the ring so that he can force them into fighting one another. That’s how the Grants died. They refused to fight, so one of Victor’s cronies went a bit overboard in the discipline.”

John drew in a sharp breath. This all seemed like some kind of dream. First he was expected to believe that some people could just arbitrarily turn into wolves and now that this Victor person was using them in some sort of dog-fighting ring. Why would he do that?

“A very good question, John,” Sherlock said and John suddenly realized he’d said that last bit out loud. “And the answer is because he can. And there’s money in it. There’s always money in making others do things that they don’t want to do.” His expression grew dark again. “Mary can tell you all about that.”

There was another beat of absolute silence before Mary said, with a steely tone to her voice that still made John shiver, “Enough, Sherlock. It’s not like you to dance around the truth.”

“I’m not dancing.” He took a deep breath before capturing John’s gaze with his own. “Mary knows me because she used to hunt us. I convinced her otherwise.” He smiled then, and it looked anything but friendly.

As the doctor took a breath to speak, Mary cut him off with a firm grip on his elbow. “And I will tell you that story later, but for now there are people in danger,” she pronounced, turning attention back to the man still clad only in a borrowed robe. “Details, Sherlock.”

“And quickly,” Greg added, leaning forward to balance his elbows on his knees. He had produced a pad of paper from somewhere and was quickly scribbling down what Sherlock had already pointed out. “I need to get these people out of harm’s way.”

Sherlock blew a breath out through his nose. “The Black Garden. That’s where he’s keeping them. But I don’t know how many guards he has. There are at least two others aside from himself, but I didn’t get a good enough look before he hit me with a cattle prod and I blacked out.”

“What is the Black Garden?” John asked, brow furrowed as he watched Greg blanche at the name.

“It’s an old estate out past the edge of town,” Greg supplied. “Nobody’s lived there for years. Seems pretty perfect for this sort of operation. Right sort of nastiness out there a fewyeras back. Whole family killed. No one goes near it anymore and it’s far enough out that no one would notice if there were lights.”

“And no one to hear the poor people they’ve kidnapped,” John finished grimly.

Sherlock suddenly bounded up out of his chair. “We need to leave immediately,” he declared before wincing as he put weight on his leg, neatly toppling back into the chair behind him. John was immediately rushing forward to look at the injury while Sherlock scowled.

“You need to stay put and let that thing heal,” Greg indicated, pointing at his injured leg. “I need to get more evidence before I can find someone to give me a warrant to search the place. God help me, this is not going to be easy.”

Sherlock perked up at this. “I know. But we need to find something to incriminate the bastard.”

Greg looked at him skeptically. “I’m not condoning you committing a B & E for evidence. That won’t stand up in court.”

Sherlock smiled was predatory. “Who said anything about breaking and entering? An anonymous source will provide you with what you need.” And he turned his gaze back to John.

\------------------------------------

“This is ridiculous,” John whispered as he trudged over the ground, cane forgotten at home in his excitement. He kept pace with the towering man beside him only by virtue of the fact that he was slowed by his still-injured leg. “And how long will it actually take that leg to fully heal?” he asked curiously.

Sherlock waved his hand absently. “Probably one, maybe two more changes. The transformation tends to make injuries much easier to deal with; they heal somehow in the intervening time.”

“Well then why don’t you transform now?” John added.

“Because I spent too long as the wolf,” he responded. “That’s why there’s so much urgency. The longer we stay as the wolf, the more feral we become. I stayed that way for five days. If I’d been out there another, I might not have been able to transform back.”

John tucked this new bit of information away. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do with it, but it was all so different and new. However, he admitted to himself that it wasn’t just the fact that this man could change his form that was fascinating; Sherlock by himself was a very different sort of man. His earlier description of John’s circumstances had made him bristle at first, but amazement had taken its place.

“That was amazing,” he finally allowed, looking up at the other man.

Sherlock stopped dead in the middle of the lane. “What?”

“What you said about me. How did you know all that? You’ve barely met me.”

“Obvious. The way you stand indicates military training. Everyone already knows you’re the town doctor; you moved into the old surgery. Some of Dr Yourns’ books are still in the bookcases, but mostly medical texts. He wouldn’t have left them if he was selling to someone he didn’t know. Simple to deduce from that that he taught you in school. No one can afford to live in London these days, especially not newlyweds. And Mary’s old profession wouldn’t allow her to find suitable employment in the city. Which shoulder did you get shot in?”

It took another moment for John’s brain to register that last as a question and so there was a few beats of silence between them. “Oh, left,” he answered absently. “Brilliant,” he breathed.

“You do realize you’re saying that out loud.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, no that’s fine.”

They continued the rest of the way in silence, the night lit by the full moon above them. By the time they reached the pub, it had turned into a sort-of companionable silence. Not quite relaxed enough yet for true friendship, but not awkward either.

“Hmm,” intoned Sherlock, pressing his back to the low stone wall near the back entrance to the town pub. “Wait here.”

“What?” John asked, his hands suddenly not trembling anymore as every nerve was alight with excitement. In some far distant part of his mind, John acknowledged that this was not the correct response to these events, but the rest of him was strung so tight on anticipation and endorphins that somehow he didn’t care.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Sherlock smiled wryly. “Victor is incredibly predictable.”

“Alright,” John said tightly. He leaned back against the wall as Sherlock disappeared into the pub.

This might be too easy, he thought to himself, but just then a hulking shape swept out of the darkness to his side, landing on his chest and driving the air from him. He could just make out a shorn head and blue gleaming eyes before a hand covered his mouth.

“You will only nod,” a deep, accented voice said to him. “Acknowledge.” John nodded once. “Good. Are you here with Victor Trevor?” John held very still. The eyes lit up and a smile came across the other’s face. “The silver wolf then?” The doctor nodded emphatically and the weight came off his chest. “Good. Good! I am Goethe. My father is Armand Turin. You know of him?”

John nodded once more before realizing he could speak. “Yes. Victor’s taken him.”

The broad man held out his hand, pulling John to his feet quickly. Goethe looked around before pressing two thick books into John’s hands. “Take these and give them to the silver wolf. He will know what to do.” And just like that he was gone, leaving John alone and very confused.

As he was trying to decide what to do, Sherlock reappeared at his side, carefully stuffing an envelope into the inside pocket of the enormous dark blue coat he was wearing. He stopped as he noticed what John was clutching. “What have you got there?”

“Uh, some books?” John said quizzically, holding them away from himself to try to catch the titles in the moonlight.

Sherlock snatched the top one out of his hands, flipping through it before smiling in a way that John could now only refer to as wolfish. “Oh it’s Christmas! Someone has already done us the favour of procuring these from Victor’s house. Who? Who was it?” he suddenly rounded on John.

“Some bloke calling himself Goethe,” John supplied. “Said he was Armand Turin’s son.”

“Oh! Brilliant! That solves one problem,” Sherlock spoke as he started heading back down the lane towards the surgery. “Victor always kept meticulous books. The better to blackmail people with later. Once we give these to Lestrade, he’ll get his warrant and we can have a look at that house.” Sherlock seemed almost giddy with excitement and it was catching; John found himself grinning like an idiot the whole way home.

As they approached John’s cottage, Sherlock finally spoke. “There should be two guards at the house. Plus Victor and one other person they refer to only as the Major.”

“How did you figure that out?” John asked, opening the door and stepping gratefully into the warmth of the cottage.

“Hmm, easily. The bar keep owes me a favour, and the other two guards are in nearly every night. He’s agreed to incapacitate them when everything else is in place. Should make our job a tad easier.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed in triumph at this pronouncement.  
“Oh, good then. Only four against two. Thanks for evening those odds,” John huffed, taking off his jacket and hanging it by the door.

Sherlock just smiled again. “Oh admit it, you love this.”

“Oh god yes.”

\---------------------------------------------

It was only the matter of a day before Constable Lestrade managed to procure the appropriate paperwork, and by that time Sherlock was able to transform again. John was amazed at how the process worked and insisted on poking and prodding Sherlock’s leg to his satisfaction before agreeing to let him go.

“Really, John, I’m not a child. I’ve had worse injuries.”

“All the more reason you need looking after,” John had replied cheerfully, and Mary had laughed, garnering a black look from Sherlock and a kiss from John.

Now, however, John held himself very still, crouched beside the basement window of the great Black Garden estate, staring down into the darkness and willing his eyes to adjust. Sherlock pressed his muzzle against John’s hand a moment, gathering his attention.

“Yes, I can just make out the cages. There’s five of them down there. One man at the door in the back. And - “ he broke off as one of the wolves’ skin seemed to ripple, stretching back, fur disappearing and suddenly there was a young woman laying naked on the floor of the cage. John inhaled sharply. The man standing by the door immediately stood, stalking over to the cage and leaning down. John couldn’t hear what he was saying, but could see the woman’s shoulders shake as though wracked with sobs. The man stood up, a chilling smile lighting up his face as he used the cattle prod in his other hand to shock the woman. Screams echoed through the room before the woman shifted back into the tawny-haired wolf.

The doctor felt more than heard the rumbling growl from Sherlock beside him. His hand snapped out, gripping the shoulder of the wolf beside him and squeezing, hard. “Quiet. We need to find a way to distract that guard.” Just as he was about to move away from the window, another man entered the room below him. He was shorter than the first guard, but his arms and thick neck were corded with muscle. In his hands he held an army-issue rifle, though it was pointed at the floor as he spoke. John strained to make out the words.

“Major wants to move the lot to Blackpool. Says there’s enough of them now they should put on a good show.”

The other guard shrugged and said something in return, but John couldn’t make out the words. The rifleman laughed and swept a hand back through his short-cropped hair. “I’ll say. This is more fun than I’ve had in a long while. Need to move them tomorrow night, I suppose. Davey’ll be back from town to relieve you in two hours, ya?”

Cattleprod nodded, sitting back in his chair and setting his instrument of torture against the wall beside him.

Sherlock nudged John’s shoulder again, flicking his head away from the window and urging John to follow. With a growing sense of anger and trepidation, John used the cover of the moonless night to sneak back the way they’d come, over the shallow ditch and back through the fence. Once on the other side, and hidden by the roll of the land, John watched in fascination as the wolf became a man.

“The man with the rifle, army-issue, fatigues, close-cropped hair, obviously dishonourably discharged for killing civilians, his name is Roland Harbours. He’s rather ruthless. He’s the one who got a little glad-handed when it came to discipline, resulting in the deaths of Mr and Mrs Grant.” Sherlock rattled all of this information off in quick succession and John was quite sure he would be paying more attention if the man speaking was not completely naked and gesticulating wildly. “The other one, with the cattleprod,” here Sherlock curled his lip in a very wolfish expression, “is a local. Bert something. Not important. We must distract the guards long enough that Lestrade can get into the room and release their captives. Do you still have your gun?”

John blinked at him for a moment, his brain trying to catch up with the conversation. “Yes,” he answered simply after a moment.

“Excellent. I’ll distract Harbours and see if I can’t find this Major they keep going on about. You incapacitate Bert. Lestrade should be arriving… now.” The taller man whipped his head around just as John registered the crunch of gravel off to their left. “Late, as usual. But he’s run off his feet as it is. All right, let’s give him a hand.” Sherlock grinned, setting forward on his heels and quickly resuming his more monstrous shape. He slipped through the fence, leapt back over the ditch and disappeared around the side of the old house, leaving John to stagger up after him, back to the window.

He could see Lestrade moving around to the back of the house on his left, and he endeavoured to keep out of the way of the constable; they’d been explicitly told not to come here. John knew the older man was concerned for their safety, especially after Sherlock’s disastrous attempt to free the others earlier, but he couldn’t help feeling that he needed to be doing this, needed to be helping in some way.

He crouched down beside the window again, looking into the room full of cages. Bert was dozing against the far wall now, chin tucked into his chest and cattle prod off to one side. Ever so gently, John raised the window enough for him to squeeze through, mindful of any noise the old hinges might make. He let his legs down first, gently placing his weight on the stack of crates directly underneath the window. One creaked ominously, which brought him to the attention of the closest wolf. Looking directly at the creature’s too-intelligent eyes, he placed a finger to his lips before returning his gaze to Bert. The man didn’t even stir, so deeply asleep was he. John grinned fiercely before finishing his descent to the floor.

He padded carefully around the cages, scanning across the hunched bodies for any sign of injury. Only the tawny wolf who had been shocked back into her shape was curled into a ball at the bottom of her cage, whimpering. The other four watched him move towards the door, keeping unnaturally quiet and still. Just as John reached out to grab the cattle prod from where it sat propped up next to the door, another man burst through the door, startling Bert out of his sleep.

“There’s a wolf loose out there!” he yelled, before catching sight of John. “Who the fuck’re you?”

“No one you need concern yourself with,” John murmured, lunging for the weapon before Bert could get his wits about him. Unfortunately, Bert was a lot faster than his groggy state would suggest, and he pulled the cattle prod out of John’s reach, quickly flipping the contact on one end and lunging towards the smaller man. John sidestepped neatly, but took the full force of the blow from the new intruder, who had used the butt end of his rifle, bringing it up into John’s left side.

The air left John’s lungs in a great rush and when he tried to inhale again, body twisted around to protect his injured side, he felt the familiar sharp jab of pain that accompanied cracked ribs. Without really thinking about it, he hooked his left fist up and into the rifleman’s chin, staggering him back a couple of paces where he tripped over his own feet, going down in a heap. John grinned and rounded on Bert, catching the other man soundly in the chest as he gaped at his fallen compatriot. Bert fell backwards, down into the chair he’d just vacated, crossing his arms over himself and John took the opportunity to grab for the cattle prod. Unfortunately, Bert saw him and pushed the weapon forward instead, catching John in the shoulder and pressing the trigger.

His whole body seized violently as the high-voltage prod made contact and he dropped to the floor, limbs twitching. Dazed, he watched Bert’s feet through slitted eyes as the other man stood up, toeing at him with one foot before drawing it back and driving it into John’s stomach once, twice, before leaving him there on the cold concrete floor.

John couldn’t move. He tried to will his arms and legs into action but nothing happened aside from a few minor twitches of his fingers. The cattle prod had rendered him nearly paralyzed, though he could definitely feel the pain where the contacts had touch his skin through his jumper and in his abdomen where Bert had kicked him. Slowly, feeling began to return and wayward surges of electric energy caused involuntary muscle movements, enough to catch Bert’s eye from where John could see him talking to the rifleman. With a wicked gleam in his eye, Bert jabbed him in the shoulder again, sending a fresh wave of electricity through the prone man.

Whilst his limbs were uncooperative, Bert searched him roughly, coming up with the gun that had been jammed into the back of his trousers, before the two men grabbed John under the arms, intending to haul him out the door. Just then, Constable Lestrade stepped through the door, aiming his gun carefully at the rifleman.

“Best put him down,” his sharp voice cracked across John’s befuddled senses. “I’ll not ask twice.”

Bert immediately dropped John’s arm and flung himself at Greg. The constable merely dipped his shoulder, taking the man in the chest and neatly flipping him over his shoulder so that he sprawled heavily on the ground behind him, gasping as the air was knocked out of his lungs. Greg hadn’t taken his eyes off the rifleman, keeping his gun steadily pointed at the other man. Slowly, he dropped John’s other arm so that John was hunched on the floor, still dazed. His other hand put down the rifle and he made to raise his hands over his head. Quick as a flash, he leapt forward, the glint of a knife in his right hand, pulled from some hidden compartment. Greg threw himself out of the way, but not fast enough, earning him a slice along his rib cage. He hissed at the contact, all the while bringing his gun to bear, slamming it into the back of his assailants head as the man stabbed at him again. He went down almost instantly, sprawled on the floor in a tangle of limbs.

Greg made quick work of handcuffing the two men where they lay before bending down and helping John to his feet. “You all right there, mate?” he asked as John shook his head to clear it, the effects of the cattle prod wearing off and giving him back control of his limbs.

“Never been shocked by a cattle prod before. A new experience I’ll have to file under things I never want to do again,” John answered wryly, testing out his hands and feet and, finding them still in the correct positions, stretching out the stiffness and lethargy that still pervaded them. “Shall we let these people go?”

Greg nodded, turning towards the cages. “Now,” he started, addressing the five wolves who were staring at him silently through the bars of their cages. “You remember me, ya? Constable Lestrade. I know what you all are, and I am here to get you out.” Immediately, four of the five figures underwent the rippling process of transformation, becoming three rather gangly lads all under the edge of sixteen and one older gentleman with a smoothly shaved head and dark skin.

“Oh my sweet lord!” exclaimed one of the lads, a pale red-headed boy skinny as a rail.

“Thank god!” added another one, Asian descent clearly marked in his square face and almond eyes, and thickly muscled in the shoulders. “Please open the doors!”

“We greatly appreciate your help,” rumbled the older man, hand to his heart.

“All right, just stand back.” Greg hesitated a moment. “Might be better for you lot to change back, quicker to get you out if there’s any more trouble.”

As if waiting for that cue, a fierce snarl followed by a pained yelp echoed through the doorway.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, gathering himself and running out the door, heedless of Greg’s shout at his back. He had enough sense to grab his gun up off the ground as he passed it and then he was down a hall, following the sound of barks and snarls coming from the propped open door at the end. As soon as he passed through the door to outside again, he saw Sherlock’s silvery-white form fling itself through the air, colliding with the body of another wolf, this one a dark, mottled brown. They tousled for a moment, jaws snapping at each other’s heads before breaking apart to glare and pace. The darker-furred wolf was heavily muscled and easily outweighed the silvery one by at least fifty pounds. Where Sherlock was spare and swift, the dark wolf was solid and strong.

John immediately brought this gun to bear, pointing it at the dark wolf and whistling. “Get back you cur,” he growled, stepping forwards. He was sure he heard Sherlock huff a laugh at that, but kept his eyes trained on the other wolf, who was staring at him intently. It bowed its head, as if thinking, when a disturbance from behind John made it snap its head back up to the doorway. Four of the captured wolves flew out of the entrance, heading straight for the dark wolf, who braced itself for their onslaught. Sherlock barked out a warning and the four broke off, nimbly changing direction and running off into the surrounding darkness.

John breathed a sigh of relief, lowering the gun slightly and addressing the dark wolf. “It’s over. You’re going to get arrested and I’m going to go home and have a nice cup of - “ Just then, John was barrelled over from behind, pain lancing through his shoulder as jaws clamped through his jumper and the shirt beneath, teeth tearing the skin. He fell forward, the heavy weight of his attacker bringing him to the ground. The gun clattered away from him and the pain grew so bright that he cried out in anguish. He was just able to register a tawny blur to one side before the weight was suddenly off of him and he saw another wolf, this one black as midnight, with the small tawny-coloured wolf latched on to its ruff. She was valiantly hanging on, deep growls reverberating up through her clamped teeth, as the black wolf shook its head, trying to dislodge her.

The black wolf finally leapt backwards, slamming the head of the tawny one into the building. She immediately let go, staggering backwards in a daze before the black wolf was on her, huge jaws encircling her neck and biting down.

The sound of breaking bone was suddenly loud in the night air. Sherlock howled his indignation, and tried to rush forward, teeth bared. John snatched up the gun in his good hand, twisted onto his side and aimed carefully. A shot rang out and the black wolf dropped to the ground.

Sherlock skidded to a stop, looking at John in surprise before being blindsided by the dark wolf he’d fought earlier. John tried to get a bead on the other wolf as the two fought, but he could feel the warm stickiness of blood bubbling out of his shoulder and the edges of his vision were beginning to dim. He pushed himself up on his good side, but a wave of dizziness engulfed him and he slid back down to the ground. He thought he heard Greg shouting, but he couldn’t be sure and it seemed so much nicer to just lay there, his thoughts fuzzy and the warm tide of unconsciousness tugging at his brain, urging him to let go. He did, reluctantly, though as he closed his eyes he couldn’t help thinking he’d forgotten something.

\----------------

John came to with a start, which was unfortunate as it pulled on the dressing on his shoulder, causing him immense pain and he gasped softly.

“John?” came a welcome voice, and Mary was suddenly there, looking down at him with great concern. “Oh thank god. Can you manage some water?”

“I think so,” he rasped, feeling as though his mouth were full of cotton. He swallowed thickly and sat up, careful not to disturb his shoulder again. “Am I home?”

Mary regarded him wryly. “I should think so. Sherlock and Greg brought you here. I stitched you up. Now drink.” She handed him a glass of water, which he accepted and drank in sparing sips, mindful of his dry throat.

“We were at that old house,” he started uncertainly. “I’d managed to distract the guards before Greg came in. Then I heard Sherlock - “ he stopped, suddenly tense. “Sherlock! Is he - ?”

Mary nodded, placing a firm hand on his chest as he started to rise. “Of course. What do I just say about him bringing you here? You think one little wolf could kill that man?” She huffed out a breath. “Don’t be obtuse. He’s in the sitting room with Constable Lestrade.”

John felt his lips lift slightly at the thought. “Trying to piece together something coherent from all of this for the courts, then?” he asked.

Mary nodded, then hesitated a full minute before she spoke again. “‘Course it would have been easier had you not been bitten.”

He suddenly felt a cold tightness in his chest. Bitten. He had been bitten. By that great black wolf at the end, before the tawny one had tried so valiantly to fight it off.

“What’s going to happen to me?” he asked, trying to sound in control, but his voice betrayed him, rasping out of his throat.

Mary pressed her lips into a thin line. “Sherlock told you he persuaded me to stop hunting him, yes?” John nodded, brow furrowed. “It was because my nephew got bitten. Sherlock claimed it wasn’t him, but maintained that it was best if I stopped trying to kill his pack if I didn’t want anyone else in my family to become like him. I watched Jared transform, that first time, and it made no difference to him. He was still Jared underneath it all.” She looked away, into the far corners of the room, anywhere but at John. “My father was so angry. He wanted to kill my nephew. Couldn’t take an abomination in our family. I took Jared away, hid him so that my father couldn’t find him again.” She looked back at John, her eyes hard. “I cut ties with my family after that, disappeared into the world.”

John made a sound low in his throat, almost a growl, which startled them both.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said from the doorway. “I will help you.”

John smiled, a mixture of relief and trepidation filling his chest. He could do this. He could face this. But he wouldn't be alone.


End file.
